


home remedies

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 05:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30034089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “Jon,”he interrupted, stepping forward to put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s hurting you? We’ve been over this before. Is it your back?”“No.” Still, he leaned a little into Martin’s touch. “It’s my legs, actually. For some… stupid reason. I haven’tdone anything.”— or Jon has a flare-up of his chronic pain.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 123





	home remedies

**Author's Note:**

> a loose tie-in with [rooted deep in your bones ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629956)but definitely not a prerequisite to read that one first

Martin, he liked to think, was an observant person. You had to be, when you loved strong-willed people. He’d learned it at a young age, with his mum, always able to notice her little triggers and tells. Even if she hadn’t wanted him to… especially if she hadn’t wanted him to. But now, now it was Jon, who was just as– as stubborn, yeah, alright, he was stubborn, okay? Martin was tired of beating around the bush. Actually, Jon was a right pain in the arse sometimes, and if you’d asked him a couple years back, he _might_ have said he could be as vile as his mum had been, once. _That_ had changed, mostly, thankfully, although him being so headstrong was still… frustrating.

“Jon?”

He looked dead tired, which was… which was _always_ worrisome, but especially when he looked like that. Physically putting a hand on his desk to push himself to his feet, slowly, like he might fall back into his chair if he wasn’t careful. He _looked_ like he might. Like Martin could say ‘boo’ and Jon would go falling over from it. But it was more than that, too. It was the pain lines around his eyes, deep etched like they’d been there for days and Martin hadn’t noticed. _He_ hadn’t noticed.

“Martin,” Jon greeted, as he slowly– so slowly– edged out from behind his desk. “All done for the day?”

“Yeah.” Well, he was noticing now. And he was starting to realize Jon must have been staying cooped up in his office all day for a reason now. He’d seen Jon in a few cycles of pain to know his tells, too, and standing in front of him with his full attention on watching him traipse across his office told him all he needed to. He cursed internally for not noticing sooner. “You’re in pain again. What hurts?”

Jon’s face got a vaguely _caught_ expression, and then he turned to gather some papers. “Martin…”

 _“Jon,”_ he interrupted, stepping forward to put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s hurting you? We’ve been over this before. Is it your back?”

“No.” Still, he leaned a little into Martin’s touch. “It’s my legs, actually. For some… stupid reason. I haven’t _done_ anything.”

“We both know that’s not how it works,” Martin muttered, but then pushed on because he wasn’t victim blaming here, he just worried, “did you take anything?”

“Earlier, a bit.” Jon turned and headed back to his desk, but not before a grimace crossed his face and, Jesus, how long had he been hiding this? It can’t have been too long, he hadn’t been projecting this discomfort yesterday, Martin knew for sure. “It hasn’t really helped, though.”

“Jon.” He curled his hand lightly around his arm when he tried to keep walking. He only squeezed gently, even though he wanted to pull him back into his arms and hold onto him in hopes of comfort. _He_ knew it didn't work _that_ way, either. “You need to go _home.”_

“No, I–”

“Need to go home,” Martin repeated. He didn’t let go of him. To be fair, Jon wasn’t trying to pull away. They were probably both aware it would probably hurt if he did. Even when Martin didn’t dare to hold onto him tightly, he knew he could hurt him. Which was _terrifying,_ but what was maybe even worse was the fact that Jon regularly hurt _himself_ when this happened. “You can come back to my place. If you, er, want.” One day, he would get used to inviting Jon over. Even now, it still gave him butterflies, and they were months on. “I mean. I’d like you to stay over, if you want. You don’t have to worry about dinner or anything. And I can get the heated blanket out, too.”

“I…” Jon looked down at the stack of papers in his hands. That _longing_ he got, to be working whenever he wasn’t. And Martin didn’t like to _say_ it, but, well, that was _kind_ of how Jon ended up where he was now, sometimes. Not all the time! Definitely not. But overworking did a thing to Jon and they _all_ knew it. “Yes,” he relented, shoulders sagging. Martin rubbed his arm. “I’d like that, I think.”

“Yeah? Good.” He squeezed his shoulder gently, and dared to lean in and drop a kiss into his hair. It was safe. There was nobody here. They were fine. “I’ll get my stuff, and meet you upstairs? Or I can come back and help you get your things together–”

“I’m fine,” Jon interrupted, which, yeah, Martin had expected him to be independent about the whole thing. Stubborn. But he was getting him to leave, so he wouldn’t push too hard. “I’ll just… I’ll meet you out front.”

“Sure. Sure thing.” He headed for the door, but paused before he left. Just– just as a side note, he glanced over his shoulder as Jon was reaching for his bag. “Please don’t bring the work with you, okay? Just for now.”

Jon paused, hands stalling against that old battered leather bag like he’d been caught again. And he probably had. Martin _knew_ him, as much as he could while still being a relatively _normal_ human here. “… alright,” he said softly, and began to pack up from the day. 

Martin, pleased, hurried back to his own desk to gather up his things, too.

Yeah, so, _stubborn_ was a word. But Martin understood, a bit, he thought. He didn’t– sure, he got irritable when he was sick or injured, but he wasn’t… he didn’t feel that on a regular basis. Jon was– it, it was chronic, he’d said. And whether it was an actual diagnosis or just Jon’s way of describing it, it… really didn’t matter. _The_ definition of chronic was consistently recurring. So Jon was in pain a lot. It had taken a particularly bad week at work for them all to become particularly _aware_ of that, as an actual _thing_ and not just it being a having slept wrong or pulled a muscle thing. But yeah, since then, Jon was a little– a _little–_ less cagey about it, and they were able to be more understanding about it. It usually didn’t get this bad, though. Or Jon never let them see it get this bad.

The dregs of his tea were ice cold, and he made a face as he headed out. A cuppa would do them good once they got home. On that, he could at least pretend.

Jon was waiting by the door by the time Martin had dropped off a set of folders on Sasha’s desk for her research in the morning and taken his dirty mug to the break room, which was just as well, because he would have _hovered_ on him in the hallway if they’d walked up together, and he had a feeling Jon wouldn’t appreciate it. He _would,_ but… he was tired. And in pain. And those things made you grumpy. Tea and some sleep would definitely do him good tonight.

“Ready?” Martin greeted, and Jon just nodded along, following Martin out the door into the cool night. 

Being on his feet, next to him, it was _glaringly_ obvious just how much Jon was flagging. He may be short, but he didn’t dawdle on anything, by any means, a determined force around the Institute when he was following a new lead. Jon’s self-assured footsteps had always given Martin a bit of a _thrill,_ back when this had– back when this had just been a sad little crush. But now he was lagging behind, footsteps uncertain. Walking like he was on eggshells. And, Christ, that hurt to watch. Because, short of picking him up, there was _literally_ nothing Martin could do to make the walk to the train better. And… and he wasn’t going to pick him up. That was… not good, especially given _their_ special circumstances, but also Jon would actually pitch an unholy fit. Or, at the very least, probably refuse to go home with him after all. Sweeping someone off their feet was all well and cute and romantic, but not when it involved, like… actual autonomy of choice?

Still. He couldn’t just stand by and pretend it wasn’t happening. “Seriously, Jon, if you need to take a break–”

“It’s not that far.”

“I know it’s not far,” Martin continued firmly. He could be stubborn, too. “But if your legs hurt, I know walking is the last thing you want to do for an extended period of time, so…”

Jon’s fingers clutched around the strap of his bag, pulling it closer to his chest. “And it just prolongs the inevitable. If I can get a seat on the Tube, I’ll be fine, Martin. Really.”

Right, Martin might fight someone for a seat if he had to. But thankfully it shouldn’t be _too_ busy right now, so… “When did you last take anything? Like, way earlier?”

“Um. Yes. Just after lunch, I think. But you know it doesn’t really–”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Do you have pills on you? I’ve got some ibuprofen, and water…” He flipped his bag open, rummaging. “Because even if they won’t stop you being in pain for the walk, maybe it’ll help dull the consequences,” he said, sensing Jon about to argue. “Aha.” He fumbled the tiny bottle of medication free, and handed Jon his bottle of water. “Maybe make it a little easier to sleep after dinner?” he said, and dumped two pills into his hand for Jon to take.

Yeah, he was steamrolling. Just a bit. But Jon needed a little _nudge,_ now and again, and it was fine. Taking medicine wasn’t a pride issue. (At least, it _shouldn’t_ be.)

“Fine,” Jon relented, holding out his palm. “You’re… probably right. Christ, I feel like I take these like sweets when I get like this.” He put the pills to his mouth and chased them down with a few swallows of water. “For all the good it does.”

Martin tossed the ibuprofen back in his bag. “I mean, so long as you don’t do it all the time? It’s fine,” he said again, and then watched Jon take another slow drink of water. “Do you know why it’s happened? The flare-up?”

“No.” Jon wrapped both hands around his water. “It’s not like I’ve done anything. I mean, besides sleeping poorly, but that’s almost a constant these days, too.” Martin pursed his lips, but Jon continued, “it’s just acting up.”

Lack of sleep could definitely probably do it, too, but Martin didn’t say that. Jon probably knew, and he definitely didn’t need told. They would hopefully remedy that tonight, anyway. Get Jon in bed at a reasonable time, warm and comfortable with the heated blanket, and get him a good night’s rest. But after some dinner. Definitely first something with… something somewhat healthy. Not a frozen dinner like he’d been planning for himself. Christ, he hoped he had something in the cupboards.

“Can I…” he trailed off, for a second, but then pushed on. Now wasn’t the time for relationship nerves. “Can I put my arm around you? It’s– I mean, obviously it isn’t going to help, but getting chilled probably won’t help, either,” he said, sneaking a glance at Jon’s thin jacket. Nevermind that Jon wasn’t one for PDA. There were more important things. “Unless that’ll hurt. If it’ll hurt–”

“It won’t hurt,” Jon said, and he sounded tired but he was smiling, a tiny thing. “Not _yet.”_

“So…”

“Go ahead,” Jon said, so Martin did willingly. So small, so easy to tuck him against his side. He hoped this would help take the pressure off walking, at least a little. It still felt like it took a long time to get to the train, even if he knew it didn’t, really. They still made it on time, even though Jon looked proper pained again, and slightly out of his breath. He practically collapsed into one of the seats, and Martin sat close enough to him that their knees touched. Jon said nothing, just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the window.

Martin wanted to wrap his arm around him again, pull him closer so that he could rest his head on his shoulder, instead, but there were more people here, and that was probably pushing too hard. So he just let Jon rest instead, keeping a careful eye on him as he went back to deciding on what to make for dinner.

The walk back to his own flat was even more quiet, and Martin might have let out his own breath of relief when he was able to turn the key in the lock and usher Jon inside. “Go sit down,” he said, like Jon needed told. “I’m gonna– I’ll get us something quick to eat, but you should have a lie-down until it’s ready.”

“I don’t need to eat.” He was, at least, not arguing on the resting part. He was already making for the sofa, dropping his bag next to it, and sinking into the tatty old cushions before Martin could say anything else. But, of course, he had to argue about _something._ “I’m fine, Martin. I’ll be fine.”

“No. You absolutely _do_ need to eat,” he said sternly, shrugging out of his hoodie. “And have something to drink. I know it’s probably the last thing on your mind right now, but… you just need to, alright? And I’d be making something for myself, anyway, so it’s really not a big deal.”

“If you say so.” … okay, that was easier than he’d expected. But Jon looked focused on taking his own coat and shoes off, so Martin would let him be distracted.

“Just take it easy for a bit. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Right, so, that was half the battle. And maybe it was true that he’d been planning on sticking a frozen dinner in the microwave or having some instant mash, but, you know what? This was working out in his favor, too. He really needed to eat better. And the discounted vegetables he’d bought on a whim were going to rot out sooner rather than later, anyway…

He might not be a good cook, but he figured it didn’t matter much when Jon wouldn’t have eaten otherwise. And it was… calming, in a way. Cooking. Scrambling eggs. Chopping carrots, green onions. The sizzle of hot oil and smell of garlic and soy sauce. He tipped the peas and eggs back into the skillet, setting both plates out as he stirred. “Jon.”

Jon grunted, head turning towards the kitchen.

“I’ll bring a plate over in a second, alright? Get ready to eat.”

“I– I can–”

“Don’t get up,” Martin interrupted. “Literally nothing about fried rice constitutes eating at the table.” And he was supposed to be resting. So. That too. “Just letting you know it’s coming.”

“Fried rice?” Jon repeated, shifting around carefully on the sofa to look over at him properly. 

“Yeah. I had some carrots I picked up, and onions in the fridge. So this was actually a good time for it.”

“Smells good.”

“It does,” Martin agreed. “I did leave the ginger out, this time, but let me know if you want me to add it in for the next.” He scooped it back out onto the plates, still talking. “I just figured, you know, with you not liking _super_ flavorful things? But let me know. Easy fix. And I can make you another cuppa, if you want.”

“I’m fine.” Jon reached to take the plate when Martin stopped in front of the sofa with them. He didn’t let sure of it until he knew for sure he had a good grip on it. But Jon smiled wryly, carefully setting the plate atop his knees. “You’re smothering, Martin,” he said, serious, but gentle.

Oh, he knew. “I’m allowed a little smother when my partner’s in pain,” he said smartly, stepping around the coffee table. “As a treat.”

“As a treat,” Jon echoed, but did smile as he stirred through the fried rice.

“It’s a–”

“Yes, I know.”

Martin laughed softly, reaching for a pillow. “Well, Tim’s a veritable walking meme machine.”

“Yes, he is,” Jon agreed, and started to eat.

He didn’t seem to want to talk, which was _fair._ He looked exhausted, and was in pain, sure, but he’d still agreed to come here. Martin had gotten him here. Gotten him another tea and some dinner, even, even if he was hunched over the plate in the same kind of way that made Martin’s spine ache when he saw him sitting like that at work. But small victories. His fault for letting him eat on the sofa, but he wasn’t going to make him _move._ Taking care of someone who was sick was… it was really a balancing act. Martin knew.

And anyway, the silence was comfortable. He flicked the TV on to the lowest volume and let the news pass by on the screen without really watching it, more focused on thinking about what else he could do for Jon, and what else he needed to do for himself tonight, too. (Or he could push his things off until morning. He’d just get up earlier. That was fine.)

He didn’t know, exactly, when Jon started getting more listless. But when Martin looked back, and he was just pushing around his leftover peas, that was enough for that, then. He needed sleep. No point to just sitting in the silence when it wasn’t important.

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching to touch Jon’s shoulder. He lifted his head, looking at him curiously. “I’ll get the blanket plugged in, if you wanna go change? You’ve still got some stuff here, in the dresser.”

Jon looked back at his food, staring like he wasn’t seeing it. Or maybe pondering the wastefulness of it all, because he ate like a _bird,_ but again– that was fine. A little food was better than no food. And Martin _did_ have a refrigerator, so…

“Here.” Martin reached over, lifting the plate from Jon’s lap. “You need help up?”

“Oh… no. Thank you.” Jon smiled a little, then, that slow, sleepy thing that came late at night or early in the morning, or after a nap in document storage. It _kind_ of still made Martin’s heart thud in his chest. Especially when Jon followed up by leaning over the few inches to kiss him briefly, too. “Sorry, Martin. I’m– tired.”

Ah, so that was an apology kiss. Silly. Martin didn’t need it for that. Still, he did slip his hand into his hair, just briefly, and touch his forehead to Jon’s. “‘s alright. I know.” Then, because he wouldn’t keep him longer, he pulled back. “That’s why I invited you, yeah? To get some sleep.” He tucked a piece of hair behind Jon’s glasses. “So, let’s get you to bed,” he said, aiming to be playful. It must have worked, because Jon’s smile turned a little more wry, and joking, as he nodded and (hand braced against the couch cushions) levered himself back to his feet.

“Let’s,” Jon repeated.

Martin left the dishes on the table in favor of getting the blanket plugged in, smoothing it out across the bed as he watched Jon pick out a pair of sweatpants– his– and a shirt– _Martin’s,_ appropriated– and go to the bathroom to get changed. Which was just as well, really, because it gave him a second to throw some of his clutter back where it belonged. Clean off the nightstand from his two day old empty mugs of tea. And maybe Jon had seen it all before, but he did _like_ to try and clean up a bit on the nights he knew Jon was coming. It was just… polite, right? He liked to have clean sheets for Jon to curl up in, but, well.

… he did give the blankets a cursory sniff while Jon was out of the room. It was just– he tended to get a bit sweaty at night, alright? And that wasn’t even factoring in the cold sweats he ended up in when he had nightmares, but, anyway, that was _all._ Yeah.

Right. He doubled back to the sitting room to grab their dishes, and a tupperware for Jon’s leftovers. There was probably no hope for being able to sit down and do poetry tonight– Jon being _in_ his house tended to put a halt to Martin _writing_ about him– but he’d definitely still have to do dishes, and maybe… hm. He really ought to have done sorting for his laundry. But… who wanted to do that, anyway? Tomorrow. Or whenever he ran out of underpants. Whatever.

The toilet flushed just as he was turning off the TV again, so he doubled back around to the bedroom to meet up with him. “All good?”

 _“That’s_ an ambitious question.” But he looked more comfortable, at least, all wrapped up in clothes that were too big for him. And he was joking, at least a little bit, with that smile. “But I’m… more comfortable, yes,” he agreed. “For the time being.”

“Well, that’s good. For the time being.” He rest his hand on the blanket, and then pulled them back for Jon. “It’s not super warm yet, but you can set the timer on whatever. I, uh, I’ve still got some cleaning up to do? So I’ll be to bed in a bit. It’s okay,” he added quickly, sensing Jon was about to… say _something_ about that. “It’s just dishes, and I– I mean, I wouldn’t really be going to bed so soon, anyway.” No, he’d just be doing a thousand yard stare at the telly without seeing it until it was time to sleep, but, _semantics._ “Just _rest,_ Jon. I’ve got this.”

“… alright.” Jon relented, with the same apologetic smile, and stepped around Martin to get into bed. “I swear I’ll pay you back. I’ll cook for _you_ next time.”

“Relationships don’t have to be _quite_ so give and take,” Martin reminded. “But, yeah, I’d like that. No rush.”

“It’s a date, then.”

… yeah, definitely still heart pounding, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, when Jon said stuff like that. Okay, so they _were_ months into this relationship, but Jon saying things like the occasional _partner_ or _date_ made Martin go all flustered again. One day he’d be normal about this! He would! Until then, Jon would probably still look at him with that kind of humor in his eyes like he was now, like he knew exactly how those words riled him up… but of course he did.

 _Oh, shove off,_ Martin wanted to retort. But he didn’t, because how could he? “It’s a date,” he repeated, taking Jon’s glasses to set on the nightstand.

It did end up being a while longer before Martin did go to bed; dishes came first, the methodical washing and drying and putting away bringing him back down from the lovestruck high Jon had worked him into. He did check up on him, after, and he was already fast asleep, curled onto his side with hair in his mouth. Martin hadn’t dared to risk it, just eased the door shut again and returned to the kitchen to make himself his nighttime cuppa.

Extenuating circumstances aside, this was… this was nice, actually. They hadn’t spent much time at each other’s places barring movie nights or working at home, which was _fine,_ but… they just really hadn’t _existed_ in each other’s spaces much. So it was… yeah, it was really domestic. Jon, asleep in his bed, while Martin paged through a book in the other room. He could get used to that. He could… he could really get used to that.

He read until his tea was gone, and decided to rejoin Jon then himself.

  
  


Morning came way too soon. And it was his alarm that woke him up, not Jon’s, which was… honestly a surprise. He must have forgotten to set it. And Martin tried to fumble his off as quick as he could, trying to let Jon sleep a little longer, but, no… Jon heard, anyway. Probably so used to waking up at this time, or, hell, _earlier._ Six forty-five was nothing to sneeze at, but Jon was always there before Martin was. Christ.

“Morning,” Martin said softly, curling back into bed. For a minute. He had a snooze set. He usually pushed seven, anyway. He was definitely going to wait as long as he could, laying next to Jon like this.

“Morning… what time is it?” Jon murmured, squinting towards the curtains.

“Just quarter to seven.”

“Oh…” Jon let out a breath, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “I thought maybe you’d let me sleep.”

He wasn’t above doing that. But not right now. “No,” he said. “Not just yet.” Jon gave a tiny smile, and Martin wiggled closer. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine… actually.” And he believed when he said that, because his eyes had already slipped shut again. God, he was _cute_ when he was still all sleep groggy. “Or… I don’t remember _not_ sleeping, anyway.”

“Yeah?” He tucked Jon’s hair behind his ear, and then just decided to comb his fingers through it instead. Because he was allowed that, _and_ Jon liked it. Lazy mornings, for as long as it lasted. Inevitably, they’d be up and bustling for work soon. Jon especially. But for now… “I’m glad,” Martin continued, angling in to kiss his forehead. “You were proper out when I came to bed. Didn’t even twitch.”

“Sorry,” Jon yawned, then tilted his head up to nuzzle Martin’s jaw. “I was… I was very, um, out of it, last night. Not great for conversation.”

“I didn’t _invite_ you for conversation,” Martin said, and then, adding quickly, “I mean, I _love_ conversation, don’t get me wrong. We both– we both _definitely_ know how much I love talking.” He felt, rather than seen this time, Jon’s smile grow. “But I don’t expect that when you’re _sick,_ Jon. I’m happy to just fuss over you and let you sleep.”

“I may have noticed.” Jon breathed out against Martin’s jaw, a _sigh,_ and one that didn’t sound particularly positive. But before Martin could even ask, he was pulling away. “We need to get ready for work.”

“Jon.” He caught his hand as he started to sit up. “The train takes fifteen minutes on a _bad_ day. We can _actually_ sleep in.”

 _“You_ can sleep in,” Jon said softly, but not unkind. _“I’m_ the Archivist.”

“And nowhere does it say you have to work ten hour days.” So much for their lazy morning, but, _Christ,_ it wasn’t even seven yet. Even accounting for a shower and breakfast, he’d still be there before eight. He didn’t need to be. Especially now. “You need to–”

“I’ll take it easy,” Jon interrupted, and drew Martin’s hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

… he didn’t really see how he could be trusted to take it easy when he was trying to go to work so _early,_ but at least he was promising. And, well, he was being sweet. And Martin _really_ didn’t want to have an argument first thing in the morning. He’d rather just luxuriate in waking up with his boyfriend, but… “Fine,” he said begrudgingly, and let Jon pull his hand away. “But if I see you pushing yourself, I’m gonna be _really_ unhappy. Just– just so you know.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good.” He rolled over onto his back, finally getting a good stretch in. Still, he was watching Jon edge himself upright, watching the way he was _still_ holding himself that didn’t bode well, and decided to finally address the elephant in the room. “How’re you feeling, anyway?”

“Mm.” Jon folded back the electric blanket, and Martin shivered from the rush of air that came from basically using the thing as the duvet, himself. “I mean, I don’t particularly feel _bad_ when I’m sitting still. Mentally, assuming I’m not _exhausted,”_ he said, a bit wry, “I feel… fine, really. Therein lies the problem.”

Martin… maybe got it? He, was it too far of a reach to compare it to depression, but sort of the opposite? Like that was like your body wanting to do things but your mind not letting you do it. But Jon was the opposite; his mind wanted to go, but his body wouldn’t work with him. And obviously these were two different things, of _course,_ and Martin had never had _physical_ pain when he’d… when he had been struggling to deal with things when he was younger… and he hadn’t really had a chance to really sit and… spiral, because he’d had things he’d _had_ to do, for his mum, and everyone else– hadn’t meant he hadn’t _wanted_ to sit by himself and not have to pretend he was okay– but… he just, he just understood a depression analogy. Mind-body disconnections were so draining. Jon actually _physically_ hurting on top of it was even _worse._

God. Martin hated illness. Of any kind. He really, _really_ did. It could tear your entire life apart and leave you hanging on by the absolute barest of threads. He _hated_ it.

Jon must have taken his silence as a cue to continue, because he did. “Although, I will admit, a good night’s rest probably helps in the long run. I may have b–” Whatever he’d been about to say just died on his tongue, as he stood. Froze on his feet, so tense, and Martin couldn’t see his face but he was immediately sat up, ice crashing into his veins again.

“Jon?”

Nothing. Not even taking the step that he’d been attempting to, just… stopped.

“Jon.”

Then, a thaw– or maybe just the peak of pressure. _“Fuck,”_ Jon hissed, vitriol and _pain_ in his voice, and Martin hurried off the bed to at least get next to him in case he– in case he collapsed or something, he didn’t know– 

“Jon.” Oh, and he looked like– not _good,_ an ashy shade of grey and pain lines so deep they could be permanent. “Jon?” he repeated, again, hesitating, because fuck, _fuck,_ what was he supposed to _do?_

Jon shifted his weight– testing, and dammit, Martin _hated_ that he knew that was what he was doing– then promptly made a sort of pained noise he’d only heard him make while– while being eaten by _worms,_ for Christ’s sake! Jon shouldn’t _make_ those kinds of noises, not like _this._

“Jon.” Finally, _finally,_ he reached out, taking Jon’s elbow firmly. “Jon, sit down.”

“No–”

_“Jon.”_

“I’m not–” Jon let out a short, shuddering breath. “I’m not sure I’ll get back up if I do.”

“Jesus,” Martin breathed, and then, louder, “you _cannot_ go into work like this. _Please,_ Jon. I am _begging_ you.”

“No, seems I’m… I’m not doing that.” Now the breath was almost a laugh… or a sob. The similarity was so uncanny it made Martin’s heart _ache._ His whole being ache. Jon was _trembling._ “I’d settle with the loo, actually.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said quickly. That was– he could help with that. “Can you…”

Jon reached for Martin’s hand, and squeezed it as he took a wary step. And immediately winced. “Yes.”

“Jon…”

“It’s just pain,” Jon said thinly, and took another step, more or less forcing Martin to either move with him, or let him go.

He moved with him, of course. “I can carry–”

“I’m not sure that alternative is an–” Jon gasped, softly, and kept moving. Slowly, but surely. “Any better. The– the awkwardness of you… sweeping me off my feet wouldn’t– feel very good.” He let out a sharp breath, wobbling. “Physically, I mean.”

“Oh, Christ, Jon.” Martin moved closer, slipping his arm around his waist. “Here, here, here, put your arm around my neck.”

“Too–”

“I can _stoop.”_

“I’m fine– I just– need to keep moving. It’s just pain,” Jon repeated, and– _stubborn!–_ kept moving. “And you can’t bring the toilet to me, _so.”_

“I mean–”

“Let’s not– imagine worst case scenarios,” Jon wheezed. “I need to be able to walk– to the bathroom… at the very least. Christ.”

“Fine.” Fair. He _got_ it, okay. He got it. Other things, sure, he could get Jon back to bed and bring him anything else he needed, but not _this._ _“Fine.”_ Was his voice sounding _tearful?_ Was that just _him?_ God, he hoped it was just him. And now he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he didn’t either start _crying,_ like a _dumbass,_ or try to lecture Jon about how he had to go back to bed after this.

How had this _happened?_ He’d– he’d made Jon come home! And he’d gotten good sleep, even! With the heated blanket, and proper hydration last night, and– and _yeah,_ he knew those things weren’t foolproof, but– fuck!

No, he was definitely tearful. Goddammit.

Jon reached out for the bathroom counter once it was within grasp, using that to support himself instead. “I’ve– I’ve got it from here.”

“Right…” Martin watched Jon steady himself, and then take a hesitant step forward. Forget walking on eggshells. He was all but practically _limping._ “But I’m leaving the door open,” Martin warned, and then turned to walk out before Jon could protest.

He didn’t go far, of course not, just outside in the hallway. And then he had to slump back against the wall, feeling his hands tremble himself. _Christ._ It had been a– it had been a _long_ while since he’d dealt with something like that. Before… before his mum had gone to the care home. And it was just as terrifying and helpless and painful as he remembered, but it had been… it had been a long time, and you were never prepared to see the people you loved hurting.

He scrubbed hard at the damp clinging to his eyelashes, and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. _Breathe, Martin._ He had to be in tip-top shape right now. Now wasn’t the time for tears. And, that aside, this was _different_ than with his mum. Things were different.

He waited until he heard the tap running to peek his head back into the bathroom, and didn’t hesitate in offering support after Jon had finished drying his hands. “Alright?”

“Yes. Er,” Jon gripped at Martin’s hand, “asides from feeling like a complete invalid–”

“Don’t.” Martin couldn’t stop himself before he said it. He tried to make an effort to squash the venom in his voice as he continued. “Having a physical or mental illness doesn’t make you useless. It just means you struggle _more._ And I know the ‘power of positive thinking’ isn’t getting us anywhere otherwise, but negative thinking– it’s just not good.”

“I…” Jon trailed off, considering. Then he nodded a moment later, small and maybe chastised. “You’re probably right.”

“No, I…” Martin sighed, squeezing his hand. “I know you can’t help _feeling_ a certain way. But I _promise_ you that’s not the case. You’re, Christ, you’re stronger than all of us put together even _not_ including this. You’ve been through shit.”

“We’ve all been through shit,” Jon remarked dryly.

“And none of us are any weaker for it. _Terrified,”_ he added, laughing humorlessly, “but definitely not useless. Not you, not me.” A year or two, and he wouldn’t have believed that himself. But it was different, now, a bit. “And– and accepting help isn’t a _bad_ thing.”

“No… although it doesn’t feel particularly _good.”_

“Well… no,” he agreed, careful in helping Jon to sit back on the bed. “But that doesn’t change things. And it definitely doesn’t change how I see things.” _How I see you,_ he didn’t say.

Jon looked… a little calmer, now, maybe, as he shuffled back on the mattress. Still in pain, and just because Martin had been talking over the tiny little inhales of pain hadn’t meant he hadn’t _heard_ them. But he looked a little bit better, so that was good. “Well… thank you,” he said, and Martin didn’t know if he really wanted to frown or smile. “I’m… I’m in good hands here, I know.”

Well, _now_ he was smiling. A bit tremulous, but. How could he not? “Do my best,” he said, and sank onto the edge of the bed. “But you need to tell me if there’s something else I need to be doing. Because, um, obviously I haven’t… we haven’t seen you hurting like _this.”_

“No, it–” He made a bit of a face when Martin leaned over to fix the pillows so he could sit up, but he did look grateful after he’d sunk back into them. “Jesus. It comes and goes, sometimes. It hasn’t been… it hasn’t been like this since Prentiss.”

“Prentiss?”

“Oh, er, physical therapy was…” he trailed off, and Martin made a tiny, uncomfortable _oh_ sound. None of them really _talked_ about that. Jon and Tim’s physical therapy. Martin’s counseling. Obviously they had all known it was happening, but it was just… difficult to talk about.

Even worse to hear the thing that was supposed to be helping Jon recover made him hurt worse, back then, but… but that was then. This was now.

“I just waited it out,” Jon said. “I didn’t feel up to doing much then, anyway. Unlike now,” he muttered, tipping his head to look at his phone. “I need to call in.”

“Oh, sure.” He grabbed the phone so Jon didn’t have to reach, handed it over. “We probably should.”

“We–”

“I’m staying with you,” Martin warned, going to collect his phone, too. “Regardless of what Elias thinks of two of us being out.” No way was he leaving him like this. There was no chance. “But… maybe _I_ should call in first? Just, uh, they aren’t going to care if I’m taking a day. And it’s not like they can tell _you_ you can’t, even if I’ve already called off. And,” he added, pulling up the Institute’s number, “it’s less suspicious than you saying you’re sick and then me immediately saying I can’t come in.” Not that they were particularly _out,_ with their relationship, if privacy counted at all anymore, but he did have a… habit of doting on Jon and if he called in right after Jon called in, sick, it was going to be… _suspicious,_ wasn’t it? No one at the Institute needed to know they were together right now.

Jon probably didn’t care in the long run, either way. He was just looking at Martin, exhaustion in his eyes again, fidgeting with his phone. “You really don’t _need_ to stay.”

“No, but I really _want_ to,” Martin said, and pressed a finger to his lips to signal Jon to be quiet as he sent the call out.

If the circumstances were different, he’d say it was almost… exhilarating, playing hooky. He hadn’t done it in so long. Then again, if circumstances were different, Jon _definitely_ wouldn’t be playing hooky with him, so… don’t get him wrong, he’d much rather be at work with Jon who wasn’t hurting, but… here he was, playing hooky instead.

“All done,” he said, once Rosie had wished him well and he’d hung up the phone. “I’ve still got leave, so, really not a big deal.”

“You could use that leave _for_ a holiday.”

“Yeah, where am I gonna go?” Martin shrugged. He’d been on holiday, like, three times in his life. And, as much as he’d _like_ to travel, that probably _wasn’t_ going to happen now, was it? “I’ll just call this my staycation,” he joked. “Just don’t tell Rosie that. She thinks I’m proper sick.”

“As your boss,” Jon started, and there was definitely a little bit of humor on his face, which was _really_ nice, considering how his face had been contorted in pain a few moments ago. “I feel like I should be protesting about this a tiny bit more.”

Martin grinned. It felt like a pretty poor imitation, but it would do. “Can I make you a cuppa and you forget all about it?” Maybe some toast, too. Jon wasn’t a breakfast person when he _wasn’t_ in pain, but he should eat.

Jon sighed, but now he was smiling, too. Just a little. “I guess I can overlook it _this_ time.”

“Great!” Martin said quickly. “I’ll do that. And you can call in. I’ll bring the tea in here, though, so stay put.”

“Yes… thank you, Martin. Again,” he added, mostly under his breath, but no, Martin _still_ didn’t mind taking care of him. The opposite.

“Anytime,” he said because it was true, and left Jon to go make that tea.

Tough it out, huh. That was how Jon dealt with this. Well, it wasn’t a surprise, but it didn’t _help_ either of them feel better. That being said, it _was_ still early, Jon had barely made it out of bed to begin with, so maybe after a couple more hours of sleep and another dose of pain pills, they could try to work a treatment plan out. Or… something like that, anyway. There were options. There were always options, dammit. He’d had his moment of uncertainty. He’d had his tears. That was done. Now it was time for action. Whatever he could do to lessen Jon’s pain, he would try.

Relaxation first, though. It was easiest, and if they– Jon– ever deserved a lazy day in bed, it was now.

“She asked me if they should quarantine,” was the first thing Jon said when Martin returned. Then, he noticed how he was precariously balancing two mugs of tea, and a plate of toast, with a sleeve of biscuits tucked beneath his arm. “Christ, Martin.”

“It’s just a little breakfast!” he said, setting the mugs down. “And, well, she’s not _wrong,_ is she? Making that assumption with two of us out.” He handed the plate over. “Weird stuff happens, but it’s not even _normal_ weird stuff at our place, so…”

“I had to assure her it _wasn’t_ The Crawling Rot, without mentioning the words _‘Crawling Rot.’”_ He considered the toast, and then took a slice with strawberry preserves. “Although I can’t say it feels much better.”

“Back before…” Martin settled on the bed again, careful of the plate and not jostling Jon. He set the toast and biscuits between them. “Before Prentiss. Has this… have you been like this, before?”

“Somewhat?” Jon frowned, and licked his lips. “I’ve… I mean, I _have_ gone to hospital before.” That was… God. Martin hadn’t _known._ “But, _pain.”_ He frowned. “It’s not always the same thing, so there’s no textbook cure. Which makes it difficult to treat. Or it’s dismissed altogether. So there’s not much point when I can take an ibuprofen at home and it does pretty much the same thing.”

“That…” Okay. He knew firsthand about that. He loved the NHS, sure, but his mum– and by extension, him– had experienced some not great things during the course of her treatment, and it was terrible and upsetting and that didn’t even necessarily _include_ invisible illness. And Jon being so adamant on just _pushing through,_ and then not getting proper care when he actually went for it… “But if you find the proper treatment… a care plan…”

Jon laughed– or sighed. He couldn’t tell which. “Martin. I think we _both_ know a care plan probably _isn’t_ going to help anything at this stage of our lives.”

“Well– not for the supernatural stuff, no–” He didn’t really want to think about _that_ part of their lives right now. He reached for his mug to wrap his fingers around, relishing a bit in the burn and bite of the hot porcelain beneath his fingers. “But… I think it’s worth it. Finding someone who takes you seriously.”

 _“You_ take me seriously.”

“I’m not a doctor.” _God,_ why did Jon have to _say_ things like that? And it wasn’t even like… wasn’t like he was saying that stuff _for_ the express purpose of being charming; he just… believed it. Which was nice! Really nice! But it… yeah, all he knew he had learned from everything with his mum, and he _definitely_ wasn’t qualified in taking care of everyone’s pain. Really, the argument could be made that he hadn’t even _managed_ with mum, considering. 

“Still helped more than they did.” Jon gestured for the other mug, and Martin still wanted to fidget as he handed it over.

“Well, I’m glad, but…”

“But I’ll keep an eye on it if it gets worse. More frequent,” he clarified, after a disapproving noise from Martin. “Alright?”

“Fine. Just– don’t make me your doctor, alright?” He huffed into his tea. “I’m not a substitute for a professional, I just make _suggestions,_ and pain _is_ a thing that’s unique to each person, like you said, so…” He watched Jon nod over his tea, and then just… sighed, because, _don’t make me your doctor,_ and he was still going to go right back into doctoring mode. Old habits died hard. _“But,_ speaking of that, how’re you– are you feeling any better?”

“It’s alright when I sit still. Mostly. But I took a pill when I was in the bathroom, so–”

“Oh, good!”

“I can’t imagine it getting worse with me sitting in bed.”

“We can move out to the couch, later,” Martin suggested. “I mean, I _know_ I’m not gonna keep you in here all day.” A tiny joke. “But we can still go back to sleep after our tea, for a while. No point to staying up when it’s still _this_ early.”

“That sounds nice,” Jon murmured, like he ought to _not_ be having a lie-in when he was ill. Silly.

“And maybe a bath later?” Martin prompted. “Or I could always try a massage? Your legs, a bit?” Massage was always Tim’s answer to anything that hurt, but– wait, wa– was Jon _blushing–_ oh, wait. That sounded– Christ. A leg massage was different than, like, just having your back rubbed– “I just mean, er, um, not– not anything you’re _uncomfortable_ with,” Martin added quickly. 

“Right.” Jon said it just as quickly. Definitely a little darker in the cheeks. God.

“Your calves?” Martin blurted, and _now_ he was blushing, too. _Dammit._ “If they– if those hurt, too–”

“They, um, yes.”

“Right. So. Maybe? But later.”

“Right.”

They were– God, they were pathetic– now the silence was heavy enough that it felt like it was going to crush them both. Martin had to make a self-deprecating joke, and muttered, _“definitely_ don’t make me your doctor.”

Jon laughed, spluttering into his tea, and okay, good, _that_ little awkward moment was mostly dispelled. 

“I‘d have a malpractice lawsuit on my hands for _sure.”_

“Yes… well.” Jon scrubbed his hand against his mouth, and passed the mug back. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Sure,” Martin joked. Jon had drunk most of his tea, which was nice, and had actually eaten the whole slice of toast. (And Martin wouldn’t pretend he still didn’t get a little pleasant notion from the fact he could _distract_ Jon into, you know, eating food or having a glass of water without complaining. That was still nice.) “Let’s just take it easy for now, though? Have a nap.”

“That sounds…”

“Good?” Martin urged. He just needed to get him to rest. He gulped the last of his tea and set it aside. He’d nap, too. Cuddle. Just the two of them, like this wasn’t another shitty circumstance. Life and lemons and all.

Jon grimaced as he wiggled down in the blankets to curl on his side. “Yes.” That was definitely a whimper, then, that Martin mostly ignored in favor of practically lunging to fix Jon’s blanket for him. “Assuming I get settled here.”

“Sorry, it’s so unwieldy–”

“No, normally I’d just– mm, kick them–”

“No, don’t do that– there.” Martin smoothed down the wrinkles best he could, fumbling for the control. “You want it on now?”

“Probably… yes.”

“Roger.” He turned the dial back to high, and settled in next to Jon himself. It was… uncomfortable, a bit, mostly because it seemed like Jon wasn’t relaxing at all. But you know what? Fair. They had all morning. Martin nudged as close as he dared without jostling him, and let Jon wiggle as far into his arms as he liked. “Just try to go back to sleep, alright? For a little bit?”

“Yeah.” Jon sighed, tucking his head against Martin’s chest. “Sorry to keep you in bed like this.”

“Jon, I am _so_ never sorry to stay in bed. Or cuddle you. These are, like, two of my favorite things,” he teased, mouthing a not-quite kiss against Jon’s messy hair.

“Er– yes.” He cleared his throat. “Right,” he continued, awkward. “I, I like it, too.”

“Good,” Martin said softly, growing warm beneath the blanket and his own adoration, and placed a proper kiss against the top of Jon’s head.

**Author's Note:**

> I really just started this as a vent piece because I spent like three days last week legitimately limping around the house because of a flare, but I guess it REALLY turned into a 8k vent piece, _huh_
> 
> let Jon let someone take care of him, every once in awhile! 👏 he deserves it! 👏 and Martin is more than willing! 👏 sit down and let someone else take care of you for a change, Jon 🥺


End file.
